


Pianist Envy

by Bunnywest



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Meet-Cute
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 21:26:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12442158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/pseuds/Bunnywest
Summary: Stiles is the piano player.Peter can think of other things he'd like to see those hands do.Shame the guy's straight.





	Pianist Envy

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! have a tiny ficlet brought to you from a cruise ship in Thailand, and fueled by cocktails.

 

The thing is, Peter’s had a shit day.

He showed one couple _seven_ properties, and at the end of it, they decided that maybe buying wasn’t for them, despite their earlier assurances that they were definitely in the market.

He’d gritted his teeth and assured them that it was no problem, despite wasting _all fucking afternoon_ with them.

And so he’s dropped into his favorite piano bar, fully expecting to relax listening to Boyd on the piano and sipping an espresso martini in relative peace.

But when he gets there, instead of the laid back atmosphere he’s used to, there’s singing and laughter coming from the bar, and as he listens closely he can hear….banter?

He enters slightly hesitantly, and sees that there’s a new guy at the piano.

Boyd had always been a quiet, solid presence, a background murmur.

This guy sounds like the polar opposite.

And honestly, it’s not what Peter needs right now. He just needs somewhere to sulk about his wasted day in peace and quiet.

But the barman’s seen him come in and has already mixed his usual, nodding to him. And from the little Peter’s heard, the guy can play, so he decides to at least finish his drink before leaving.

He watches the young man with interest.

He’s young, and he’s cute, Peter notes.

The whiskey colored eyes flash with mischief, and he smiles broadly at the crowd.

And it’s his eyes that catch Peter’s attention first, but his hands that hold it.

 

He can play, certainly, Peter will give him that. His hands flow over the keys like water over rocks, sure and confident as he chats with the patrons while he skips between tunes.

He flirts shamelessly with the ladies in the bar, blows them kisses, takes requests, encourages the patrons to take the mike and song along, and laughs loudly when they proposition him.

And when Peter sits down, and catches sight of the pianist’s hands, that’s it.

He’s gone.

Because fuck, those fingers.

Long, long fingers.

Broad palms.

Such dexterous, clever hands. Peter can only imagine what they could do to him.

He realises he’s staring, and quickly averts his gaze before the young man notices.

And then he proceeds to spend the next ten minutes casting furtive glances at the piano, because damn, he likes what he sees.

The young man has an upturned nose and a smile that promises absolutely no good.

He has a long pale neck that Peter just wants to lick and bite his way along, and a scattering of moles that contrast unfairly sexily. His hair is deep chestnut brown, and sticks up from his head haphazardly, as if it had been tidy once, but life had interfered.

He’s exactly Peter’s type.

Such a shame he’s straight, he thinks bitterly.

All the nice ones are straight or taken.

And the way this man flirts and teases the females in the bar, Peter’s forced to admit that he has no chance.

That doesn’t stop him wanting, though.

And it doesn’t stop him having absolutely filthy fantasies as he consumes a second and then a third martini.  

He sits quietly in the corner with his eyes closed, and listens to the music, and pictures the hands that are running surely over the keyboard running just as confidently over his body. He imagines the broad palms cupping his ass and pulling him in close, and he imagines those plush lips kissing him.

And he thinks about how those slender fingers would feel sliding inside him, stretching him tortuously slowly, twisting and pulling, opening him for what he’s sure must be a gorgeous cock, if the rest of the man’s anything to go by.

He opens his eyes, and the man’s still there, and still gorgeous, and still winking at the woman who’s draped herself over the piano. It’s fucking unfair, is what it is.

He takes his empty glass over to the bar and asks Steve the barman “What happened to Boyd?”

Steve snorts.

“You know what they say about watching the quiet ones? Well our friend Boyd has had to leave town suddenly. Apparently he was having an affair and the husband found out, and threatened to shoot out his kneecaps.”

Peter whistles.

“So who’s the new guy?”

Steve smiles. “Oh, Stiles? Friend of a friend of the boss. Just moved to the city, and agreed to fill in. I think we’ll end up keeping him though. Why, what do you think of him?”

“He can certainly play” Peter concedes.

“The ladies like him “ he adds, and he looks over to see a young thing plating a tipsy kiss on Stiles’ cheek.

What the fuck kind of a name is Stiles anyway.

Peter sighs, and goes home and bemoans the lack of attractive young gay men with delectable hands, and jerks off to the thought of  a devilish smile, and clever, clever, hands on his cock, before falling asleep still strangely unsatisfied.

 

* * *

 

He goes back the next night.

He doesn’t mean to, and he probably shouldn’t, because he has way too much to do, but he finds himself once again in the corner, nursing his drink and casting surreptitious glances at those hands.

He wonders whether the wide palms means Stiles would grip him hard enough to leave bruises, if he asked nicely.

He eyes up the younger man’s frame, and notes the broad shoulders, watches the flex of the muscles as Stiles runs his hands over the keys, and imagines gripping onto those muscles as Stiles slams into him.

He leaves after one drink, because this is fucking ridiculous.

 

The next night, he justifies it as being a Friday night, and he always goes to the bar on a Friday night.

It’s tradition.

Besides, apart from his looks and his hypnotic digits, Stiles can actually play worth a damn, and Peter finds himself getting drawn into his patter, smiling at the lame jokes, and once he even catches himself humming along to Sweet Caroline.

He doesn’t even like Neil Diamond.

He goes back on Saturday for no good reason at all except that he can’t stop thinking about the damned hands.

He notes that they’re smooth, but not soft.

They look like they mean business. 

These hands should be hefting an assassin’s rifle, or swinging a baseball bat at the head of a wild creature. They should be knuckle deep in Peter’s ass, pressing in slowly but relentlessly, making him beg for more, and that voice should be whispering in his ear, telling him to spread his legs wider, not singing American Pie with eager young women.

Peter shakes himself and slams down his glass, before stomping out into the night.

This is not like him. He doesn’t pine, and he doesn’t fantasize about men that he’s never even spoken to, and straight men at that.

It has to stop. He needs a new bar.

 

* * *

 

He manages to stay away for a week.

In the meantime, Stiles seems to have bought his own fan club with him, because suddenly there are a lot more younger patrons, and what used to be Peter’s quiet escape is now the home of boisterous singalongs and raucous laughter.

He scowls as he orders his drink, and Steve catches the look.

“Bad day?” he asks, eyebrow raised.

“It’s suddenly very…hipster in here” Peter tells him, and Steve has to concede that it’s true.

He shrugs.

“Stiles has a following, what can I say? The ladies love him.”

“I can see that“ Peter snaps, rather more harshly than he intended to.

Steve slams down his drink and walks away and great, now Peter feels like an asshole.

He turns to walk to his normal table and sees that it’s full of young women. They’re giggling, and one of them has a tiara that proclaims her to be the _Bride_ in diamantes.

Peter’s too busy mourning the loss of his table to look where he’s going, and manages to catch his hip on the corner of the piano.

“Goddam motherfucker!” he hisses out, grabbing at the place where he’s smacked his hip bone.

‘Woah, no assaulting the instrument, man” says an amused voice, and he looks up to see Stiles’ eyes locked on him.

Damn it, he looks fantastic. He has his shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow, showing muscled forearms that make Peter want to lick them, or possibly fall at the young man’s feet in worship.

His hair’s mussed, and he’s wearing skinny jeans that look like he put them on when he was twelve and grew into them.

Peter realises that he’s staring a moment too late, and something in Stiles’ gaze sharpens and he extends his hand, saying “I’m Stiles. You were in last week, yeah?”

Peter takes his hand and shakes it, and holy mother of god, it’s exactly as strong and sure and firm and amazing as he imagined it to be.

He’s still holding the hand when he introduces himself “Peter Hale.”

He asks “So tell me Stiles, do you have a good memory for faces then, if you remembered mine?”

Stiles winks, and says “Only the pretty ones, man.”

Peter blinks.

“Pardon?”

Stiles‘ eyes go wide, and he pulls his hand away suddenly, stammering “Shit, sorry, did I read that wrong? I suck at this.  Only you came in every day, and I saw you looking a few times, and I thought you were interested. Obviously you aren’t. “

Peter stares, and it takes his brain a moment to catch up.

“No. You’re straight.” He finally manages.

Stiles furrows his brow.

“Who me? God, no. Strictly a dick guy”

Peter’s confused and relieved all at once.

“But the women are all over you. I just assumed…”

Stiles grins, then, and licks his lips.

“Nope. Part of the gig, but really not my thing. I’m more into hot older guys in suits, who stare at my hands.”

And Peter realises that he’s doing just that.

Stiles raises one hand in front of Peter’s face, and fans his fingers out slowly, sensuously.

He leans forwards and breathes in Peter’s ear “You know, I’ve been told I’m very good with these. And I’m finished in an hour. And I’ve seen you staring. Care to find out exactly what they can do?”

Peter hums.

“Definitely. Why don’t you tell me just where your talents lie over a drink?” he offers.

“Well I could” Stiles croons back, “But really, I’d rather show you. I’m more of a hands on person.”

 

* * *

 

 

Peter’s hips look so pretty with the bruises on them.

 

 

 

 


End file.
